Blowing away the cobwebs
Our Dave reckons it’s time to get out more. A er all, he does come from the world’s epicentre of driving excellence (aka King’s Lynn)
THE first sharp frost of winter neatly outlined the cobwebs festooned on my Ninety. I have no problems with spiders colonising my 1984 Land Rover – after all, every old Land Rover I’ve ever known has had its eight-legged residents – but it did imply that I don’t get out much. And it’s right: I should be out driving, not least because I have a proud motoring heritage to uphold. You see, I come from King’s Lynn.
At this point you’re probably wondering what a small market town in Norfolk has got to do with the automotive world, so I’d better explain…
King’s Lynn these days has a population of just over 40,000, but when I was growing up there in the 1960s and ’70s it was just 25,000. Yet somehow my home town has turned out two F1 Grand Prix drivers, which is pretty amazing.
It was brought home to me the other Sunday when George Russell, deputising for Covid-19 infected Lewis Hamilton, was desperately unlucky not to win the Bahrain Grand Prix. Only a tyres cock-up prevented him from taking his first podium driving for Mercedes. And George Russell comes from King’s Lynn.
So too does Martin Brundle, one of Britain’s best racing drivers in the 1980s and 90s and a Beneton team mate of the great Michael Schumacher before the latter moved to Ferrari. These days he’s a respected motorsport commentator, of course. My connections with him include going to King Edward VII grammar school together, although I’d hesitate to claim we were schoolmates, as he was three years younger than me (and it wasn’t the done thing to associate with lesser oiks). I was closer to Martin’s aunt, Enid Williamson, who lived just up the road from my parents and ran a driving school. She taught me to drive, so she’s got a lot to answer for!
My home town was also the birthplace of another schoolmate, Peter Riches, who many will know as the highly-respected Chief Scrutineer at Silverstone’s British Grand Prix, as well a Technical Director of the British Touring Car Championship. I’m still in close touch with Peter, as we’re both on the committee of our former school’s ex-pupils’ association. He’s a busy man, but he still finds time to put something back into the school that gave us such a good start in life.
Unfortunately, and despite being taught to drive by Martin Brundle’s auntie, the King’s Lynn magic never really rubbed off on me. I’d rate my driving skills as distinctly average – especially when it comes to reversing a trailer with my Land Rover. But back in the 1970s that never stopped me and my close friends from attempting to ride or drive as fast as we could; after all, we were teenagers and considered ourselves immortal.
We were also nutters. After accepting a dare from me, my mate Martyn Kemp rode his motorbike up the steps, through the door and into the bar of the Cock Inn at Magdalen and ordered a pint. The landlord was a tad surprised, but he poured him a pint anyway. After all, it was a bikers’ pub in those days.
Martyn remains a true petrolhead and still races touring cars – namely highly-tuned Civics in Honda VTEC Challenge races.
Another spectacular sunset in the Nene valley
These days he is teetotal, which at least prevents him from finding unorthodox ways of entering pubs. And just like all these other King’s Lynn motorsport legends, he certainly knows the best way of blowing off a few cobwebs.
Norfolk remains my favourite corner of the country for exploring in my Land Rover. The pandemic of 2020, of course, restricted my excursions to my home county, but in the UK you’re never too far from somewhere worth driving in your Land Rover.
On my own doorstep, in Northamptonshire, a pal tipped me off about some impressive aerial displays by flocks of millions of starlings, gathering every evening at a nature reserve in the Nene valley. Rather than join the crowds in the reserve car park, I instead drove down a rutted and muddy byway that forded a shallow stream before ending close to a bridge over the River Nene – from which there was a great view from the opposite side of the reserve.
As the sun set in the west, great flocks of starlings started arriving from all directions and joined together in a magical ballet of ever-shifting shapes in the sky above. Such displays are known as murmurations and I’ve photographed them before with seabirds on the coast of the Wash (a few miles north of King’s Lynn, as it happens) but I’d never before been fortunate to appreciate such a sight inland. It was simply stunning – just like the spectacular sunsets I’ve been enjoying of late.
After a crisp winter’s day, the deep red sun sliding down below the western horizon sparks off a lighting show that’s sure to blow away any remaining cobwebs.